Undercover agent, Colin Chase Rand had seen it all, or thought he’d had.
Cruising down the road, rocking to the radio, Colin came across an ethereal phenomenon, the Fata Morgana. It was no mere illusion. The shimmering surreal glow enveloped him, pulling him through a portal, setting his course to a different era and defying all explanations of reality.
Nothing could’ve prepared him for the next leg of his journey, a journey that would take him to a deceptively quiet countryside in Genoa City, 1935, where a sinister serial killer was lying in wait.
Read An Excerpt:
Undercover agent, Colin Chase Rand had spent a week with his family who had come to visit him in Duluth before he left the area.
His mother had always wanted to stay at the historic Fitger’s along the shores of Lake Superior. His father, as always, was accommodating to her wishes. She was thrilled with the stunning lake-view room they’d reserved.
His brother, Rick, was there for a few days but had to return before the week was up. They were short-handed at the fire station and he had to return to work. His mother and sister, Ilene, took advantage of the hotel spa and lots of shopping.
It was extremely relaxing. He’d been on guard, on high alert for so long he’d practically forgotten how to relax.
His good friends, Keoni and Lizette, came to share the last day with him and his family. It was awesome to have all of them together before he headed out of state to the next assignment.
The shaky goodbyes and the hugs filled him with happiness and love. He had one hell of a family. Colin knew how lucky he was to have them.
With his family, Keoni, and Lizette in the rearview mirror, Colin left Locke Bay satisfied he’d done the best job under the extenuating circumstances.
It was hard saying goodbye, not knowing if all would go well with his next assignment. It was something he learned to accept and live with. He was close to his family and, at times, it was extremely difficult to be without them, especially during the holidays, or missing birthdays.
Or, when Lizette put the gun to his head. All he could think of was how much he’d miss his family; how it’d break his parent’s hearts if she pulled the trigger.
Keoni Nani and Lizette Hill are two of the best friends a person could have. They’d met under the most unusual circumstances. When he’d first met Lizette, he didn’t trust her, knew she was hiding something. She was, absolutely without a doubt.
Funny how things turned out sometimes, he ended up knowing she and Keoni would always have his back.
Author Bio:
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Wall Street Journal bestselling, award-winning author, Pamela Ackerson is a time traveling adventurer. She was born and raised in Newport, RI where history is a way of life. She lives on the Space Coast of Florida where everyone is encouraged to reach for the stars!
Her literary journey is as diverse and adventurous as the time-traveling escapades she writes about. With a rich tapestry of genres at her fingertips, she weaves stories that span from the wild frontiers of the Old West to the intricate cultural tapestries of Native American history. Her work doesn't stop at fiction; she delves into the realms of history, self-help, and even marketing, showcasing a versatility that resonates with a wide audience.
Ackerson's presence on the Space Coast of Florida reflects her forward-thinking approach to writing, always aiming for the next big leap in her storytelling odyssey. Her prolific output is a testament to her dedication to her craft, inviting readers to join her in exploring the vast landscapes of human experience and imagination.
Honest reviews of my books are always appreciated.
Absolutely no AI tools were used to create this story or any story I have written.
How to Date a Prince Hayden Stone Publication date: July 15th 2025 Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance
What happens when the British Crown Prince falls in love with an American man who opposes the monarchy?
Prince Auggie swears he’s no kind of dashing prince: daydreamer, private—and also secretly very gay. He’s instantly horrified when his father, reality TV addict King James, signs Auggie up for a reality TV show to promote the monarchy, where the man with the most talents wins—and to help find Auggie a bride, the very last thing Auggie wants. But duty calls.
When Auggie finds out his co-star is irritatingly gorgeous Thomas Golden, the charismatic dual American-English heir to the Golden hotel fortune, it’s another step too far. There’s at least one problem: Prince Auggie’s already recently crossed paths with Thomas Golden one disastrous night in a London club. Plus, there’s that whole second not-so-small, not-so-secret problem—the Golden family wants to get rid of the monarchy.
Once Auggie and Thomas arrive on set in the English countryside, it’s already unapologetically hate at first sight. It’s going to be a very long summer of filming…until sparks fly behind the scenes, leading them to make a searing heatwave all their own. But soon, real reality strikes, and Auggie must choose between the life he’s destined for as the future king—or dare risk everything for love.
An enemies-to-lovers, opposites-attract, feel-good gay royal rom-com.
For fans of Red, White & Royal Blue, Boyfriend Material, and The Unlikely Heir.
More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com
A Terror Triptych: Ireland Kasey Fallon Publication date: October 1st 2024 Genres: Adult, Horror
Readers can expect three chilling tales, each steeped in Irish folklore, history, and psychological horror. A Terror Triptych: Ireland is the second set of short horror by Kasey Fallon, with stories that delve into the darker side of the Emerald Isle. Each story is accompanied by original poetry and hand-drawn illustrations, enhancing the atmospheric tension of the collection.
Dark Legends Reimagined
Legacy, the first story, traces the cursed history of the Clairy family. The Clairys have fed centuries of blood into the Fair Farm of Clairy, and as an ancient Gaelic god demands more, their desperate choices lead to devastating consequences. As Fallon writes, “This is the bed the Clairys have wrought. Generations of blood.”
The collection continues with Dungeons Under Dublin, where guards at an ancient prison discover why they should have left the old wing untouched. Fallon’s use of Irish settings is not merely for atmosphere, but to invoke the weight of the country’s past, its myths, and its lingering shadows. Readers can expect historical accuracy intertwined with unnerving fiction, making the horrors all the more visceral.
Finally, in The Dead House, the picturesque Aran Islands become the stage for Clara’s unnerving attraction to the only house on the island left to rot in haunting silence. As one reviewer noted, “These stories are flat out, bone-chilling, creepy… The psychological touch was there, that’s what makes you shiver.”
“Da, I think he’s just… hungry, maybe?” Finn said, hesitant. He spoke quietly as the wind and rain died down.
Tiernan sniffled and looked at Finn with red eyes.
“He said what now?”
“He was just talking about gifts, and how he didn’t want any moldy bread anymore,” Finn said. “And Lughnasadh, he said the deal was for offers on Lughnasadh.”
“Offerings,” Tiernan corrected absently. His eyes narrowed on Finn.
“Did he say what the offerings are, Finn?”
Finn thought hard. Had The Comm specifically said what the presents were? There was the talk of old people… a whisper drifted over his shoulder.
“Nothing that isn’t already mine, young Clairy. All of Ireland is mine.”
Finn looked up at his Da.
“He said nothing that isn’t already his.”
Author Bio:
Kasey grew up on the East Coast, from Maine to North Carolina. She loves two things above all in nature: the water, and the forest. While she might not love her nightmares, they do inspire many of her works. A recipient of the Editor's Choice Award from the International Library of Poetry, she writes across several genres. She and her dog can be found investigating new hiking trails, or curled up on the couch as he pushes her computer off her lap to make room for himself.
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in The Whisper Legacy . . .
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.
THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: March 25, 2025 ISBN: 978-1685129149 Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub
GUEST POST:
Who Is Lowe Curran and Why Is He Trying to Be Me?
I have written almost a dozen novels. Of those nine have been published, two are on their way, and one was re-written into a sequel. In those stories, there is always a character or two (or four) stolen from my real-life adventures as an anti-terrorism consultant—past and present. Sure, sure, we all promise that “names, characters, and places are the work of fiction and aren’t anyone living or dead” blah, blah, blah. That’s true overall, except come on people, get real. Most of our main characters—the good and the bad—are part of us in some way. Well, except for Oliver Tucker who’s a dead detective in my paranormal mystery series. I’m not dead yet. But in my thrillers, the main characters are sort of a Frankenstein of people I’ve known along my travels. And, yes, the main characters carry a lot of me with them. Marlowe “Lowe” Curran, without a doubt, tries the most to be me—more than any protagonist I’ve ever written.
Sorry, it wasn’t planned that way.
Curran—that’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an—the narrator and main character in The Whisper Legacy, is a down-on-his luck private investigator and security consultant. He was once a hired gun for the US Government protecting big shots and bad guys overseas. Until the Voula Beach Road mission that ended his career, nearly his life, and wiped out almost all his friends and colleagues. It destroyed him for years. Now, he’s fighting back and trying to evade a murder wrap in order to find out who or what Whisper is. It won’t be easy. First, he’s coming to grips with loneliness and age. He creaks and groans too often. Can’t pass a bathroom without a pitstop. He’s slowing down and no longer the swashbuckler he once was. If he can overcome all that, he might live long enough to learn what Whisper has to do with his past and why it might end his future. Oh, and why the body count of Washington DC elite is rising.
Me, too.
Well, not the Washington body count, but everything else.
I, being of sound mind and aging body today, am a private investigator and anti-terrorism consultant. While I was never washed up in the old days, I certainly felt that way many, many times. After leaving my dream job as an OSI agent running its anti-terrorism program, I was lost. Depressed. A failure. I had to leave, mind you. Divorce took my children ten hours away and a life travelling the world and doing OSI’s bidding would have left me without them. That was not acceptable. I resigned. Boom. My life’s dream was crushed.
It took me a couple years to rebuild a career and finally feel like I was back in “the game.” Then, a few years later, the company where I was an executive, sold out and left me alone and on my own again. Boom. A failure. Alone. I was neither, but those feelings haunted me like Curran’s nightmares plagued him.
Finally, I found my feet again consulting with a Washington DC thinktank on anti-terrorism with Homeland Security. Yeehaw. Back on my feet. Off to the races. Except now, I was older. Slower. Out of shape and yep, had to keep an eye out for the men’s room. Okay, TMI. Sorry.
Even though I was supporting Homeland and doing important work, I still struggled with the loss of my prior adventures. Sure, sure, maybe those adventures were long ago and not as super-cool as I recalled. But they were mine and they made me who I am. Now, I wasn’t quite “that guy” any longer.
Why do I tell you all this poor-me? Because it somehow slipped into Lowe Curran’s character and became his resume. No, I never lost my team on Greece’s Voula Beach Road. But wait! My first brush with terrorism was on that very road back in the late 1980’s. That event gave me the realism to write Curran’s fictional ambush—the breeze of salty sea air, the smoke from roasting lamb, and the smell of gunfire and explosions. Ah, the good old days…
In The Whisper Legacy, Curran operates out of an old barn loft apartment helping his aged, yet still beautiful and alluring landlady stop her cheating husband. After OSI, I lived in a barn loft apartment. No, my landlady wasn’t a Janey-Lynn, but hey, a guy can dream. Right?
Poor Curran is trying to stay in shape and regain his glory days. Me, too. I used to run five miles a day and ten miles twice a week. I studied Martial Arts, weight lifted and stayed in great shape. Age stole all that. Oh, yeah, sure, probably a little laziness and excuses, too. Now, in my early sixties, I’m back to working out two hours a day to fight my body’s natural love of good food (which I cook, of course). I feel for Curran. He hates aging. Hates not being “that guy.”
Dammit, man, me, too!
Oh, and Curran is a man about dogs—he steals, er, rescues Bogart, a black lab, from a nasty POS. I have three rescues and two rescue cats. Just sayin’.
So, life imitates art? Or is art the canvas for life? For Lowe Curran, well, we’re stuck with each other. I love him. Not because he’s so much of me, but because he fights the good fight with laughs, good nature, and sheer will. I try to do that, too. Though, I think he pulls it off better than me most of the time.
The Whisper Legacy has far more about my world than just Lowe Curran. Give it a read. See if you can find me, my world, and my fears in there. Maybe there’s a few of yours in there, too.
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran
Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.
For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.
I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.
Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.
My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.
See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.
Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.
He wasn’t.
Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.
“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”
I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”
No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.
The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.
Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.
“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”
If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.
“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”
As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.
A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”
Time to play the role.
“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”
“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”
I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.
“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”
I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.
“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”
Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”
Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.
“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”
“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.
The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.
What an asshole.
“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”
“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call? I didn’t call you.”
“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”
“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”
Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”
“Not until I get my Rufus.”
His watch signaled him again.
“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.
I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.
I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.
I know cool TV stuff like that.
At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.
I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.
Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.
“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”
We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?
“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”
“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.
I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.
“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“Nope.”
“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”
“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”
“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”
I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”
He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”
“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”
“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”
Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”
He shrugged. “It means—”
“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”
“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”
“They send me.”
Chapter Two
U.C.
The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.
The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.
U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.
The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.
“Yes?”
The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”
“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”
“He got through.”
“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”
U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”
“Maybe.”
He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”
“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”
He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.
“Did you hear me?”
U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”
Hesitation, then, “Orders?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.
He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.
Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.
U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”
The Controller—Define compromise.
U.C.—Total.
The Controller—Confidence?
U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.
***
Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.
My Big Fat Beach Wedding Melanie Summers Publication date: April 24th 2025 Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
The plan was simple: fake the wedding, save her career. Then she met the best man.
Vivian Whitlock’s social media empire is about to crumble. She’s closing in on thirty, and her fans are moving on to their ‘weddings and babies ’era. About to be dropped by her management team, she pretends she and her secret boyfriend are ready to take the plunge.
But Vivian’s picture-perfect plan takes an unexpected turn when she moves into the beachside bungalow Dominic shares with his brother, Ben—an intense, fiercely-devoted single dad with no time for romance.
Surrounded by swaying palms, ocean breezes, and a precocious five-year-old who steals her heart, Vivian starts to wonder if she’s been chasing the wrong dream all along.
Is she about to lose everything she built—or finally find something that lasts?
My Big Fat Beach Wedding is a STAND-ALONE laugh-out-loud, banter-filled tale of two people who can’t fall in love but do anyway. It’s the perfect heartwarming, feel-good escape from the real world.
WHAT TO EXPECT:
Single Dad who would do anything for his young son
Opposites attract
Living in the Same House
World’s most adorable 5-year-old (with cute red glasses)
Loads of witty banter
A slow burn, plenty of steam, and a hint of spice
Okay, so slight problem. Dominic left for work early for a pre-show meeting, and Josephine has gone to the other side of the island for a two-day solo hiking trip up a mountain (of course she did). I agreed to go for a sunset dip in the ocean with Henry and Ben this evening, which
means we’re all frolicking around playfully in the water in our swimsuits, and Mr. Not-Dad-Bod is in a pair of black trunks that are leaving very little to my imagination. And I know I shouldn’t be looking. Like, I actually do know it, okay. No one has to tell me that it’s completely inappropriate to be ogling my future BIL. But at the same time, my eyes are drinking in the sight of him right now as he gets Henry set up on a surfboard laying on his stomach and sends him back toward the shore. Ben’s arms and chest flex as he pushes the board, and I can’t seem to look away. Also, he’s laughing and smiling, and dear God, but he’s got the best smile I think I’ve ever seen. Better than Giancarlo by about ten million percent. I’m in the water up to my ankles so I can catch Henry if needed, but honestly, he doesn’t need my help. The kid is a total pro, and I’m pretty sure he’s been riding a surfboard since he could walk.
Other than us and the odd seagull, the beach is empty. The waves roll gently in toward the shore in white foamy swirls that disappear into the sand. Behind Ben, the sun is about to dip down to reach the horizon, and the only sound competing with the lapping water is that of Henry’s irresistible little giggle. He reaches the shore and I put my foot out to hold the board steady while he gets off, his life jacket clearly making the task a little more difficult. He adjusts his prescription goggles, then grins up at me. “Come on, Auntie Viv, you’ve got to try it!”
“Oh, no, you keep going. You’re having so much fun,” I tell him, picking up the board and holding it under my arm like the real surfers do.
“I get to do this every day. I want you to try it,” he says, taking my hand while we wade back out to Ben against the gentle surf.
Ben grins at me and lifts Henry up onto his hip. “Yeah, why don’t you give it a try? I bet you’ll love it.”
“Do it! Do it!” Henry chants.
Blushing a little, I say, “All right, but I’m not exactly sporty, so try not to laugh.”
Ben takes the surfboard from me with his free hand, his fingers touching mine as he does, sending a thrill right through me to my toes. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ve laid on your stomach before, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can do this.” He holds the board in place for me while I climb on, trying my very best not to think about the fact that he’s so close to my bikini-clad bottom right now. God, I hope she looks good like this. Be perky, bottom.
No, don’t worry about that, silly beans! He’s not looking. He’s a gentleman.
I grip the board with both hands and hold on.
“You ready?” he asks in his deep voice.
“Yup,” I squeak out, even though there’s nothing scary about what I’m about to do.
“Away you go!” he says, pushing the board toward shore.
I squeal and hold on, feeling like a kid again as I zip toward the beach. When I get there, I quickly stand, then turn to Henry and Ben, who are cheering mightily as if I’ve just done something spectacular. I give them a deep bow.
“Again! Again!” Henry says as I walk back to them.
(Okay, so I’m not walking like I normally do. I may or may not be striding toward them with a little extra hitch in my hips and my shoulders back a wee bit more than normal. Bad Vivian. Bad. And yet, still doing it.)
“You know who hasn’t had a turn?” I ask Henry.
“My dad?”
“Yup! Your poor dad, right? I bet he wants a turn.” I give Ben a smile and I have to say, I don’t hate the look on his face right now. All that hip swaying might not have gone unnoticed.
Author Bio:
Melanie Summers also writes steamy romance as MJ Summers.
Melanie made a name for herself with her debut novel, Break in Two, a contemporary romance that cracked the Top 10 Paid on Amazon in both the UK and Canada, and the top 50 Paid in the USA. Her highly acclaimed Full Hearts Series was picked up by both Piatkus Entice (a division of Hachette UK) and HarperCollins Canada. Her first three books have been translated into Czech and Slovak by EuroMedia. Since 2013, she has written and published three novellas, and eight novels (of which seven have been published). She has sold over a quarter of a million books around the globe.
In her previous life (i.e. before having children), Melanie got her Bachelor of Science from the University of Alberta, then went on to work in the soul-sucking customer service industry for a large cellular network provider that shall remain nameless (unless you write her personally - then she'll dish). On her days off, she took courses and studied to become a Chartered Mediator. That designation landed her a job at the R.C.M.P. as the Alternative Dispute Resolution Coordinator for 'K' Division. Having had enough of mediating arguments between gun-toting police officers, she decided it was much safer to have children so she could continue her study of conflict in a weapon-free environment (and one which doesn't require makeup and/or nylons).
Melanie resides in Edmonton with her husband, three young children, and their adorable but neurotic one-eyed dog. When she's not writing novels, Melanie loves reading (obviously), snuggling up on the couch with her family for movie night (which would not be complete without lots of popcorn and milkshakes), and long walks in the woods near her house. She also spends a lot more time thinking about doing yoga than actually doing yoga, which is why most of her photos are taken 'from above'. She also loves shutting down restaurants with her girlfriends. Well, not literally shutting them down, like calling the health inspector or something--more like just staying until they turn the lights off.
She is represented by Suzanne Brandreth of The Cooke Agency International.
Just Another Meet Cute Jenn P. Nguyen Publication date: May 20th 2025 Genres: Comedy, Contemporary, Romance, Young Adult
Boy saves girl stuck on a disastrous hike. What could go wrong? So. Much.
Just Another Meet Cute is the joyful and funny story about what happens when you realize you’re dating the wrong twin.
When seventeen-year-old Nina Riley gets saved by a super cute Knight-in-Faded-Khakis just as she lands in an embarrassingly ‘ahem ’sticky situation during the most disastrous hike known to man, she wasn’t exactly looking for a meet cute. She really just needed some peace and quiet from her complicated family. Unfortunately, he disappears before she can properly thank him or get his number. All she has is his name (Ian Nguyen) and a navy jacket with a dog keychain, a gym card, and laundromat receipt. But a meet cute is a meet cute. And armed with years of watching Veronica Mars and a techy cousin, it should be simple enough for Nina to find the boy of her dreams, right? But when she finally tracks him down, he’s different than she thought ―right down to his name. Ryan is just as cute as she remembers, but the chemistry isn’t there like it was before. After a few dates, she meets Ryan’s family: his sweet grandma, his enthusiastic sisters, and his twin brother ――Ian.
He knelt down beside my bleeding leg and dug around in the box. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks. It’s short for Nina.” After the words popped out of my mouth, I wanted to smack myself on the forehead for sounding so stupid.
Thankfully, Ian mistook my word vomit for humor or charm or something and laughed. He pulled a couple wet wipes from a pack and cleaned my leg and cut as best as he could before shoving them into a small plastic bag. Then he spread some white ointment on the cut and unwrapped a couple of Band-Aids. His fingers were long and moved quickly like this wasn’t his
first time. After he put two Band-Aids on my cut, he pressed the edges down to make sure it was firm.
This time I felt the warmth of his fingertips on my skin, and the goose bumps that rose on my arms in response.
Rubbing my arms to make them go away before he noticed, I gently stood up. “I’m okay now. Thanks.”
“Are you sure? Your face still looks kind of red.”
Embarrassed, I adjusted the sunglasses until they fell lower on my face like a shield. “No, it’s just—the sun. It’s hot today.”
He glanced up at the overcast sky. It was so thick with clouds that you could barely see the sun anywhere.
“It was sunny earlier,” I said quickly. “Like scorching sunny.”
“Yeah, Texas’s weather is pretty unpredictable.” Still crouched down, Ian leaned to the left to pack everything up. When he was done though, he still didn’t immediately get up. Instead, Ian stared at something on the rock behind me. I followed his gaze and groaned out loud in horror. There was a dark butt-shaped smudge right where I had been sitting a few seconds ago.
With a puzzled expression, his eyes slid up and down my legs—which sounds way dirtier than it was. I almost wished it was dirty so at least I’d know he was thinking of me in a cute-girl-I’m-attracted-to way instead of a weirdo-girl-he-regretted-bumping-into way.
I knew the exact moment when my embarrassing situation clicked in his head. It was almost like his brown eyes cleared—as impossible as it was. My first instinct was to bury my face in my arms and flee, but my feet were frozen in one spot.
To my surprise, Ian didn’t immediately run away. Instead, he stood up, still digging in his bag. His head ducked down until I couldn’t see his face anymore. Especially as one hand messed with his hat, tugging it side to side. I could see that his ears were flaming red though. “Well, I think I have something else in here to help you with . . . that. If you—you need it.”
“What do you—” I glanced down at my legs and his pink face. Until my eyes finally landed on the tampon and pad he held out in his hand.
Oh. My. God.
Author Bio:
Jenn Nguyen fell in love with books in third grade and spent the rest of her school years reading through lunchtime and giving up recess to organize the school library. She has a degree in business administration from the University of New Orleans and still lives in the city with her husband. Jenn spends her days reading, dreaming up YA romances, and binge watching Korean dramas all in the name of 'research'.
Prince Auggie swears he’s no kind of dashing prince: daydreamer, private—and also secretly very gay. He’s instantly horrified when his father, reality TV addict King James, signs Auggie up for a reality TV show to promote the monarchy, where the man with the most talents wins—and to help find Auggie a bride, the very last thing Auggie wants. But duty calls.
Readers can expect three chilling tales, each steeped in Irish folklore, history, and psychological horror. A Terror Triptych: Ireland is the second set of short horror by Kasey Fallon, with stories that delve into the darker side of the Emerald Isle. Each story is accompanied by original poetry and hand-drawn illustrations, enhancing the atmospheric tension of the collection.
The plan was simple: fake the wedding, save her career. Then she met the best man.
